When I initially starting writing about the protest I attended in NYC yesterday, it was more-or-less a recounting of what I had seen, heard, and felt. My plan was to shape that sensory experience around the noted absence of a leader - you know, that elusive political jesus we always seem to hope will emerge. And how maybe, after experiencing what I did, it’s okay if one doesn’t. Because truth is, one might not. And if we keep waiting in our little bubbles of indifference and inaction, hoping for this hypothetical messiah to save us all, the ground we stand on is going to sink while walls and strongmen continue to rise up all around us. The only leader we have right now is our own proactivity: our protests, our taking to the streets to be sure we are heard, is the voice that is needed for this moment.
I was happy with that as an idea. Sure, maybe I was mourning a bit in my execution of it, slightly miffed that I didn’t sound more like Hunter S. Thompson. But then, I was sober, after all.
Today, though… today, something else happened, something that made me scrap that whole draft (not that it will be greatly missed, but still.) Today, I had posted a series of photos of the very protest I had attended, captioned by sarcasm: “Heard criminals and thugs were causing trouble and instilling terror…found only empathy and cries for justice. Huh. Imagine that.” Some people messaged me, irritated that my choice of words were misleading at best, cable news anchor level bullshit at worst. That things had been violent, that criminals and thugs had taken to vandalism, looting, and general assholery. Which is true; while the protest I was at was nothing but peaceful and amazing, I had seen the broken glass of shattered storefronts walking home afterwards.
Still, I stood my ground, noting that most of those people were opportunists. Not to mention others who had posed as Antifa as either cover to do shitty things, to sway the narrative of what antifa even is, as well as doing what they could to incite riots in the first place. I was scolded for saying such things, that I was eating up propaganda and taking Vice articles as fact. (Which, okay, quick side-note: I think I was most mad at that assumption than anything else. Vice, though? Really?)
But that being said, as the conversation progressed, I grew more frustrated as I was sent one link after another. Sure, you could look at CNN’s coverage of the protests and see its reporting and choice of words as defense of the looting, which is absurd and hypocritical to condone. You could look at MSM coverage, and be outraged at how all of a sudden, CoVid doesn’t seem to matter anymore. You could look at the New York Post, see video of the vandalism from just last night, and be pissed off that no one seems to mind, how it’s all being excused away. Like anything in our current world, you could look at anything, and see total slant, total lack of nuance, and total hypocrisy.
I didn’t write the caption I did to mislead, but to simply point out that not all of these protests are turning violent, and not all protesters are out there to be violent. For the most part – in the same way that for the most part, our country isn’t majority extremists – these protests consist of people who are fed up, disgusted, and pleading for accountability and change. Their ask isn’t anything crazy, either: they want to be seen as human. To eliminate certain police practices and reteach others, and to hold law enforcement to the same standard any of them would be held to. And of course, due justice for those taken both in the recent weeks, and in the dozens of years before.
It’s been a while since we’ve been here. For decades, most of us have been numb and complacent, uninformed and apathetic. Things got comfortable, distractions happened, cynicism and distrust in leadership grew strong. So maybe, some of us just don’t remember. Maybe history we were taught left out a few things, or seemed less offensive in sepia tones. But when movements happen, it doesn’t always go seamlessly. It won’t always be organized. There will be a select few who take it too far and wind up hurting and damaging people, property, and the cause itself. It will seem like end of times and that our country is falling apart. But we’ve been here before. We’ve survived, and come out of it for the better. And at the of the day, that’s all those who are marching want: to change things for the better.
Wednesday, June 3, 2020
Saturday, May 30, 2020
The Broader Question
Some years back, a friend and I were at a bar. I had asked her the kind of question you don’t normally ask at a bar - not before you’ve finished your first drink, anyway: “Where do you wanna be 5 years from now?”
To be fair, it hadn’t come out of nowhere; she was in the midst of potential career change and, well, it was making her ponder shit. She loved her current job, but she had received an offer from somewhere new, for almost double the salary. So of course, she expected little more than to hand in her resignation and throw deuces (I mean…). But to her surprise, and a little dismay, her current boss had made a comparable counteroffer. Either way, she would wind up making way more money than she was. But which job to take?
So I said, what it would come down to is: where did she want to be 5 years from now? And which job would help to best get her there?
It’s an age-old question, ya know…what’s it all about? Why are we here? But in the years leading up to our CoVid moment, there didn’t seem to be much of those sorts of discussions anymore. Instead, things seemed to be reaching a burnout point. There was just…too much of everything, and it was all a clog on the brain and the senses. Too much excess, too much anger, too much instability, too much FaceTune. And worse, it was an environment to which, and in which, we’d all become numbly complacent. There was no time to protest or make stands or ask the real questions, but there was all the time in the world for things like 2+ hour commutes, 60-hour work weeks, 2 or 3 jobs. Seeking promotion after promotion. Buying shit and more shit.
For what? And why?
And in a way, things did crash: this virus grinded things to a halt in a way that I am convinced needed to happen, and in a way that I don't know we would have been able to do on our own. But the conversations I kept hearing, reading, being dragged into, are those which say "I want things to get back to normal.” Let’s just get back to work. This isn’t fair. This isn’t right. Why are we risking the economy over this? How soon can we re-open? On and on. And while I understand – people need their job to make a living and survive, and we certainly can’t have our economy collapse (check out Pramila Jayapal’s proposal on ensuring that doesn’t happen, btw) – I see that whole viewpoint, and the debate it ensues, as a real loss.
For we’ve been given something that I don’t think any of us have ever had, and might never get again: months of time, and perhaps months more.
My hope at the beginning of it was that this would be a “pause” from the constant noise and grind of what our country has molded our lives to be, and become an opportunity for us to step back from it. For many of us, it could be a time to figure out what we value, and what we really want our lives to be. Not just as individuals, but as a society as well. Maybe we should question the necessity of commutes and office space. Maybe we should question our level of consumption. Maybe, once all the netflix and amazon has been watched, we should wonder we really enjoy doing with our time. Maybe we should wonder, what matters to me? Is it working to the point of stress and exhaustion, even for a fat paycheck, or is there something more?
Of course, most of the friends I told this to reacted with cynicism. "It’s all gonna go right back, right to how it was," they said, "Nothing’s gonna change. You have too much hope for people; they aren’t gonna be doing that sort of soul-searching.” And maybe they’re right. I’m sure plenty of people will be putting their focus on arguing over masks and if Fauci is lying and demanding to be allowed to go back to work so they can go right back into the routine they were in and WHO is corrupt trash and trolling in internet arguments and falling victim to the latest divisive thing.
But maybe…maybe not.
I’m not a huge believer in things like fate, but certain stars have seemed to align of late. Oftentimes, it takes terrible circumstances to push us to finally act against things that seemed for so long impossible to topple. Because right now, we’ve got this perfect storm: 40 million people out of work. We’re home, a captive audience to everything that unfolds before us every day. There’s nothing to keep us from it, other than actively tuning out; given that there’s a health crisis and people want to stay informed, I don’t know many who aren’t watching, reading, or listening. Only this time, instead of just being pissed off or shocked or disgusted, we have the addition of pent-up energy. Only this time, the routine that normally would wear us out or keep us preoccupied, is gone.
Watching the protests yesterday gave me hope. For so long, these sorts of protests haven't happened to such a degree because people just couldn't take off work, even for a day. But now they've got nothing to lose. And maybe it had to happen this way. Maybe these protests wouldn't have happened if we weren't all waiting for lockdown to be over. Maybe the outrage wouldn't have been as intense as it should be, had we all been in caught up our normal routines. But seeing what these protesters are fighting for - something bigger, something to hopefully change the way things have been for too long - should make us all reevaluate what's really important and what really matters. I truly hope these protests open a door that otherwise wouldn’t have been opened. And make us all understand that CoVid will be over eventually, and we have the ability to shift what's waiting for us when we get there.
To be fair, it hadn’t come out of nowhere; she was in the midst of potential career change and, well, it was making her ponder shit. She loved her current job, but she had received an offer from somewhere new, for almost double the salary. So of course, she expected little more than to hand in her resignation and throw deuces (I mean…). But to her surprise, and a little dismay, her current boss had made a comparable counteroffer. Either way, she would wind up making way more money than she was. But which job to take?
So I said, what it would come down to is: where did she want to be 5 years from now? And which job would help to best get her there?
It’s an age-old question, ya know…what’s it all about? Why are we here? But in the years leading up to our CoVid moment, there didn’t seem to be much of those sorts of discussions anymore. Instead, things seemed to be reaching a burnout point. There was just…too much of everything, and it was all a clog on the brain and the senses. Too much excess, too much anger, too much instability, too much FaceTune. And worse, it was an environment to which, and in which, we’d all become numbly complacent. There was no time to protest or make stands or ask the real questions, but there was all the time in the world for things like 2+ hour commutes, 60-hour work weeks, 2 or 3 jobs. Seeking promotion after promotion. Buying shit and more shit.
For what? And why?
And in a way, things did crash: this virus grinded things to a halt in a way that I am convinced needed to happen, and in a way that I don't know we would have been able to do on our own. But the conversations I kept hearing, reading, being dragged into, are those which say "I want things to get back to normal.” Let’s just get back to work. This isn’t fair. This isn’t right. Why are we risking the economy over this? How soon can we re-open? On and on. And while I understand – people need their job to make a living and survive, and we certainly can’t have our economy collapse (check out Pramila Jayapal’s proposal on ensuring that doesn’t happen, btw) – I see that whole viewpoint, and the debate it ensues, as a real loss.
For we’ve been given something that I don’t think any of us have ever had, and might never get again: months of time, and perhaps months more.
My hope at the beginning of it was that this would be a “pause” from the constant noise and grind of what our country has molded our lives to be, and become an opportunity for us to step back from it. For many of us, it could be a time to figure out what we value, and what we really want our lives to be. Not just as individuals, but as a society as well. Maybe we should question the necessity of commutes and office space. Maybe we should question our level of consumption. Maybe, once all the netflix and amazon has been watched, we should wonder we really enjoy doing with our time. Maybe we should wonder, what matters to me? Is it working to the point of stress and exhaustion, even for a fat paycheck, or is there something more?
Of course, most of the friends I told this to reacted with cynicism. "It’s all gonna go right back, right to how it was," they said, "Nothing’s gonna change. You have too much hope for people; they aren’t gonna be doing that sort of soul-searching.” And maybe they’re right. I’m sure plenty of people will be putting their focus on arguing over masks and if Fauci is lying and demanding to be allowed to go back to work so they can go right back into the routine they were in and WHO is corrupt trash and trolling in internet arguments and falling victim to the latest divisive thing.
But maybe…maybe not.
I’m not a huge believer in things like fate, but certain stars have seemed to align of late. Oftentimes, it takes terrible circumstances to push us to finally act against things that seemed for so long impossible to topple. Because right now, we’ve got this perfect storm: 40 million people out of work. We’re home, a captive audience to everything that unfolds before us every day. There’s nothing to keep us from it, other than actively tuning out; given that there’s a health crisis and people want to stay informed, I don’t know many who aren’t watching, reading, or listening. Only this time, instead of just being pissed off or shocked or disgusted, we have the addition of pent-up energy. Only this time, the routine that normally would wear us out or keep us preoccupied, is gone.
Watching the protests yesterday gave me hope. For so long, these sorts of protests haven't happened to such a degree because people just couldn't take off work, even for a day. But now they've got nothing to lose. And maybe it had to happen this way. Maybe these protests wouldn't have happened if we weren't all waiting for lockdown to be over. Maybe the outrage wouldn't have been as intense as it should be, had we all been in caught up our normal routines. But seeing what these protesters are fighting for - something bigger, something to hopefully change the way things have been for too long - should make us all reevaluate what's really important and what really matters. I truly hope these protests open a door that otherwise wouldn’t have been opened. And make us all understand that CoVid will be over eventually, and we have the ability to shift what's waiting for us when we get there.
Wednesday, May 27, 2020
To Measure The Value of a Thank-You Note
I don’t really know where to begin with this one.
No, seriously; I really don’t. For some reason, when I write in this style – first-person, memoir-esque – it just comes out in funny / self-deprecating / perhaps thoughtful. But when it comes to the sad, the painful…that voice just seems to show itself out. Maybe because the worst things I’ve felt in the course of my life – namely, whatever I couldn’t really turn into something funny - were the very things I kept to myself. But the irony is, when I talk now to friends and I tell them about “this shit thing” or “that shit thing”, they always say: gurl, you need to be writing about that.
So tonight, with the vestiges of tears still clinging to my eyes and cheeks, I’m going to try.
Oh – and I’m also playing Fade Into You (Mazzy Starr, ovbz) to, ya know – keep me in the mood.
Honestly, I don’t even know why I got as upset as I did. It had all started off fun; hilarious, even. My parents had dropped off a bunch of old board games at my house earlier, and unbeknownst to me, they had also thrown in a large envelope filled with papers. I chuckled to myself, thinking, classic Mom. Always trying to sneak in things like that - drawings we had done as kids, old tests or notebooks from school. She likely just wants them out of the house, sure, but – also, she feels in her heart we (my siblings and I) would want them. Or at least, appreciate them.
So, I open the envelope and begin to curiously empty its contents, wondering what it’ll be this time. It starts off slightly confusing – why would Mom be giving me all the thank-you cards that I (ever, by the looks of it) wrote to my grandparents? But before I could puzzle the strangeness of getting back thank-you cards I had written so many years ago, there came some detours – such as, the synagogue program from the weekend of my bat mitzvah. A playbill from the drama show of my junior year, which featured a play written and directed by me (god, that day was one of the most fun in all four years of high school). The startlingly feminist poem I wrote in 8th grade (I apparently had some views at 13), which I read aloud to my boyfriend despite his pleading for me not to. I can’t imagine why he didn’t want to hear it: to give you an idea, one of my favorite parts compared the female gender to the queen in chess – the most powerful piece on the board, and the male gender to the king – slow, oafish, helpless, taking forever to move, and only able to do so one step at a time.
I laughed so loud I scared one of our cats out of the room.
And then, there came more and more thank-you cards. One after another, from the more sophisticated college ones, to high school. The ones from junior high where I was definitely still deciding what I wanted my handwriting to look like, to clumsily hand-drawn filled sheets from when I was 4 or 5. All of them from me, to my grandparents. And then - and I don’t why then, in that moment - it hit me.
My grandparents had kept these. They must have. For all these years.
It was such a powerful thing, and I didn’t even realize. All those years of “just cards” that I wrote or made or drew, even emails from college that my grandpa had printed out to keep, that didn’t mean little to me per se, but…that I certainly couldn’t have imagined had meant so much to my grandparents. Enough, in fact, that at age 91, this is the first time my grandma has chosen to part with them. And while I do always say apartment cleansing is cathartic as fuck – this time, my grandma's came with a slight casualty.
As I sat there sobbing, surrounded by decades of thank-you cards, it wasn’t a sea of memories in the way I normally experience it - though I do distinctly remember writing many of them. It was a wave, of life, of the past, of understanding my grandparents and what they cherished more than I ever had before.
Yet, I still didn’t know why I was so upset. I cried and cried for, oh god, 20 minutes straight? But why? It was a feeling, an overwhelming one, of memories and nostalgia, of yearning and heartbreak, but not that, and so much more than that. I tried to explain it to my boyfriend, failing again and again. After talking for some time, which involved many tears over my (recently deceased) grandpa, he said to call my mom, talk to her about this. “If this is about your grandparents, she’ll understand,” he said, “It’ll be good to talk to her about that – you’re both going through the same emotions.” I sullenly stared at him, then the floor. “I wouldn’t even know what to say, I don’t know even know why I’m feeling like this.” Hugging me, he said, “Call her.”
So, I did. And I resorted to what I’ve always resorted to with writing – shameless honesty. Okay so, I don’t know what to say? Then, that is exactly what I say – “Hi mom, I don’t know why I’m so upset, but…”
It turned out to be the best thing I could have done. My mom, as always, was amazing, and knew all the things I needed to hear to feel better - classic Mom. “We were a family who wrote letters,” she said, “And in the world we live in now, of texts and emails…there’s no sentimental value in that. And sentimental value, is a powerful thing. That’s why I wanted you to have those cards.”
Which is true. We were a letter-writing family. As a kid, I had boxes filled with cards written to me, and my mom confessed tonight she may have a near-closet filled with correspondence she’s received. That she’ll never throw them away, for the same reason those letters left me sobbing – the sentimental value in them is immeasurable, and more powerful than I certainly could have ever imagined.
No, I don’t think everyone needs to go out and write letters, or panic over all the ones they may have discarded over the years (whoops). But maybe to simply remember, in the vapid and often lonely world we live in, there’s still room for a box – or two – of reminders of what really matters.
No, seriously; I really don’t. For some reason, when I write in this style – first-person, memoir-esque – it just comes out in funny / self-deprecating / perhaps thoughtful. But when it comes to the sad, the painful…that voice just seems to show itself out. Maybe because the worst things I’ve felt in the course of my life – namely, whatever I couldn’t really turn into something funny - were the very things I kept to myself. But the irony is, when I talk now to friends and I tell them about “this shit thing” or “that shit thing”, they always say: gurl, you need to be writing about that.
So tonight, with the vestiges of tears still clinging to my eyes and cheeks, I’m going to try.
Oh – and I’m also playing Fade Into You (Mazzy Starr, ovbz) to, ya know – keep me in the mood.
Honestly, I don’t even know why I got as upset as I did. It had all started off fun; hilarious, even. My parents had dropped off a bunch of old board games at my house earlier, and unbeknownst to me, they had also thrown in a large envelope filled with papers. I chuckled to myself, thinking, classic Mom. Always trying to sneak in things like that - drawings we had done as kids, old tests or notebooks from school. She likely just wants them out of the house, sure, but – also, she feels in her heart we (my siblings and I) would want them. Or at least, appreciate them.
So, I open the envelope and begin to curiously empty its contents, wondering what it’ll be this time. It starts off slightly confusing – why would Mom be giving me all the thank-you cards that I (ever, by the looks of it) wrote to my grandparents? But before I could puzzle the strangeness of getting back thank-you cards I had written so many years ago, there came some detours – such as, the synagogue program from the weekend of my bat mitzvah. A playbill from the drama show of my junior year, which featured a play written and directed by me (god, that day was one of the most fun in all four years of high school). The startlingly feminist poem I wrote in 8th grade (I apparently had some views at 13), which I read aloud to my boyfriend despite his pleading for me not to. I can’t imagine why he didn’t want to hear it: to give you an idea, one of my favorite parts compared the female gender to the queen in chess – the most powerful piece on the board, and the male gender to the king – slow, oafish, helpless, taking forever to move, and only able to do so one step at a time.
I laughed so loud I scared one of our cats out of the room.
And then, there came more and more thank-you cards. One after another, from the more sophisticated college ones, to high school. The ones from junior high where I was definitely still deciding what I wanted my handwriting to look like, to clumsily hand-drawn filled sheets from when I was 4 or 5. All of them from me, to my grandparents. And then - and I don’t why then, in that moment - it hit me.
My grandparents had kept these. They must have. For all these years.
It was such a powerful thing, and I didn’t even realize. All those years of “just cards” that I wrote or made or drew, even emails from college that my grandpa had printed out to keep, that didn’t mean little to me per se, but…that I certainly couldn’t have imagined had meant so much to my grandparents. Enough, in fact, that at age 91, this is the first time my grandma has chosen to part with them. And while I do always say apartment cleansing is cathartic as fuck – this time, my grandma's came with a slight casualty.
As I sat there sobbing, surrounded by decades of thank-you cards, it wasn’t a sea of memories in the way I normally experience it - though I do distinctly remember writing many of them. It was a wave, of life, of the past, of understanding my grandparents and what they cherished more than I ever had before.
Yet, I still didn’t know why I was so upset. I cried and cried for, oh god, 20 minutes straight? But why? It was a feeling, an overwhelming one, of memories and nostalgia, of yearning and heartbreak, but not that, and so much more than that. I tried to explain it to my boyfriend, failing again and again. After talking for some time, which involved many tears over my (recently deceased) grandpa, he said to call my mom, talk to her about this. “If this is about your grandparents, she’ll understand,” he said, “It’ll be good to talk to her about that – you’re both going through the same emotions.” I sullenly stared at him, then the floor. “I wouldn’t even know what to say, I don’t know even know why I’m feeling like this.” Hugging me, he said, “Call her.”
So, I did. And I resorted to what I’ve always resorted to with writing – shameless honesty. Okay so, I don’t know what to say? Then, that is exactly what I say – “Hi mom, I don’t know why I’m so upset, but…”
It turned out to be the best thing I could have done. My mom, as always, was amazing, and knew all the things I needed to hear to feel better - classic Mom. “We were a family who wrote letters,” she said, “And in the world we live in now, of texts and emails…there’s no sentimental value in that. And sentimental value, is a powerful thing. That’s why I wanted you to have those cards.”
Which is true. We were a letter-writing family. As a kid, I had boxes filled with cards written to me, and my mom confessed tonight she may have a near-closet filled with correspondence she’s received. That she’ll never throw them away, for the same reason those letters left me sobbing – the sentimental value in them is immeasurable, and more powerful than I certainly could have ever imagined.
No, I don’t think everyone needs to go out and write letters, or panic over all the ones they may have discarded over the years (whoops). But maybe to simply remember, in the vapid and often lonely world we live in, there’s still room for a box – or two – of reminders of what really matters.
Saturday, May 9, 2020
Farewell to Eden
The sign that hangs above the welcome desk is huge and shiny. “Welcome, Eastridge High Alum! Congrats on 20 Years!” 20 years, I muse; 20 fucking years. I receive my name-tag and pin it to my left lapel, then head down the tiled hallway towards the gymnasium. Christ, I think in amazement; it even smells the same.
I pause at the open doors. What the fuck am I doing here though, really, I think. But my heart picks up pace as I stand there, wondering the same thing I’ve wondered the whole journey here: if I’ll see her. If she remembers that secret pact that we made, all those years ago, as vividly as I do.
“You know I’ve always been in love with you, right,” I can hear the echo of her voice. We’re at the Lookout, passing the joint I’d nabbed from my older brother’s stash, staring up at the star-filled sky. I nod, “I know.” “But you’re leaving, and I’m leaving,” she continues. I nod, “This is true.” She sits up, her hair long and tumbling down her back. She looks at me, “I’ll probably never see you again.” I shrug, “Probably.” "Hey!" she grins, hitting me lightly. Then her face grows thoughtful. “Wait. Wait, okay. 20 years,” she says, “20 years. We’ll both go to the reunion-“
“Reunion?” I laugh, “I barely make it to school events as is-“
“Yes. Reunion,” she repeats loudly over me, poking me and laughing, “You’ll have pulled your shit together by then. Anyway, we'll both be there. You’ll look at me from across the floor, and I’ll look at you. And here's the deal: if we walk towards each other, we’ll take each other’s hands, drop everything in our lives, and run away together. Forever.”
I take a puff, exhale. “Why not just do that now?” Sarah frowns, “Because that’s not realistic.” I grin and look over at her, “And this 20-year-long game plan of yours, is?” She nods sagely, “Look, you’re with Dana. I’m with Brian. In two weeks, we all graduate. In college you’ll have more Dana’s, I’ll have more Brians. And then, you know. Life. Besides,” she says, curling her hair behind her ear, taking the spliff from my outreached hand, inhaling, “I like pacts. I like having a secret. I’ll even make it official, here-” She takes off her favorite ring and tucks it into my jean jacket pocket. “See?” she said, “How amazing do you feel now, having a pact with someone that no one else knows about?”
I can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. I pause, then slip off my silver chain bracelet. “Here,” I say, and she looks at it in surprise. “Come on. Wouldn’t be a pact if I didn’t give you something,” I say. Her smile spreads slowly, lighting up her whole face, “Yeah.” She holds it in her palm, then wraps her fingers around it, closing it from sight.
I hop to my feet, stretching my arms in feigned tiredness, and say, “So, I guess that's it then? See you in, what, 20 years, right?” “What! Dumbass!” she exclaims, laughing. She’s pulling me back down- her hair smelled of flowers-
I smile, feeling her ring near my heart, where it’s hung on a chain, tucked away, since that night. And I wonder the same thing I always do every time I feel it, look at it: if she’s worn my bracelet since then, too. If it’ll be around her wrist, when I see her.
I take a deep breath, and walk into the gym.
The dimness of the lights is pleasantly hazy above the packed floor. A DJ plays in the corner. Sounds of chatter and the perfume of booze gently swirl in the air. I stroll around the outskirts, sipping my drink, when someone taps my shoulder.
“Holy shit - Josh?”
I turn. I’m met with a beaming, dimpled smile and shock of curls. Before I know it, she’s pulling me in, hugging me so tight I can barely breathe. “I knew it was you, I fucking knew it,” her muffled voice says into my chest. “Hi, Marisa,” I say, chuckling. She breaks away, playfully hits me, “What the fuck! I can’t believe you actually came! Eileen, Mark, get over here!”
Before I know it, I’m being hugged, flanked, tousled - “Only took 20 years to get you to come to one of these things, huh Joshie?” - given a shot, then another. My ears fill with stories of marriage and families, careers and retirement dreams. But most of all, memories. Those four years of high school, where the only thing that seemed to matter was our crew’s friendship: me, Marisa, Mark, Eileen, and...Sarah.
"Hey," says Mark to me, "Remember that first day we all got together? Freshman year. Marisa and me are under that tree in the quad, waiting for this one to finally arrive," he claps me on the back for emphasis. I nod; the others smirk. "Then before you know it, this girl walks by. This beautiful girl. She must be new, we think; we don't recognize her. Marisa here, not one to ever hold back, calls out to her. We start talking. 'Sarah', she says her name is. Then Josh shows up, and that's when we knew: she was in. Anyone who can hold Josh's focus for more than 30 seconds, is in." Everyone is laughing in agreement. The reminiscing continues, an endless brook of happy babbling.
Sarah. I haven’t seen her yet. I’m assuming she’s off talking to people, like always. I keep looking around, my heart doing little leaps each time. Waiting for that moment when our eyes meet and we walk towards each other. How she’d grin wickedly at me in that moment, and we’d run out of here, away from the past 20 years of a foggy fever dream and into to a woken Eden.
“Course right after graduation, Josh here disappears,” Mark’s regaling. He shakes his head at me, “It was like you got on the plane straight from the ceremony. Where’d you even run off to, man? I heard so many rumors. South America, Asia, fucking Russia. Seducing socialites in between hedge funding and espionage.” He’s laughing, Marisa is protesting. Eileen pipes up, “Well, let’s be real. Of our whole graduating class, ‘Most Likely to Become an International Man of Mystery’ could only belong to Josh Evans.” I chuckle, but say only, “I traveled a bit, yeah.” Everyone grins. I clear my throat, saying, “Speaking of mystery, where’s uh, where’s Sarah at?”
The smiles fade. An odd hush falls over them. I search their faces, but eyes are averted, heads bowed. “What?” I say, my heart sinking a bit, “She couldn’t make it?” There’s a long pause. The music in the background seems to fill the void. Eileen answers, and her voice is low, gravelly. “She - she’s gone, Josh.” I take a step back, shake my head, “What?” “Yeah, man,” says Mark, nodding somberly, “Three years ago.” I stare at them all, hoping this is some stupid prank like we all used to play, that Marisa will break like she always did, and Sarah will pop up behind me and shout “BOO!”
But there’s nothing. Only that music, that goddamn music. The room is suddenly spinning. My legs are shaking. My throat feels swollen, maybe from the shards of my shattering heart. “You were off on your...travels, you know,” Marisa’s saying weakly, “No one knew how to reach you. No one’s known, really, not since we graduated. I guess we just assumed you...knew. And grieved in your own way. You were always like that, Josh.” “Right,” I say, “I, uh, I’m gonna go outside for a minu-“ My voice breaks, and in a daze, I stagger to the back exit.
It’s cold outside, or at least I guess it is; there’s snow and bare branches and dark sky, anyway, and my breath comes out in white wisps like winter has consumed my insides, too. But I can’t…feel anything. Not the chill of the air, not the tears on my cheeks. I can barely taste whatever this drink in my hand is. But I tilt it back and chug til it’s gone, then toss it aside into one of the piles of snow.
I angrily yank out the chain from under my clothes and take it off. Like a curled snake, it huddles in my palm, with Sarah’s ring at the center. As I stare at it, I can see Sarah from across the swell of parents and graduation gowns. Brian was at her side, they were taking pictures with their families. As she turned to fix her cap, our eyes met. With a grin, she waved to me, then pointed to her wrist, my bracelet twinkling in the sun. Then, she was gone, slipped away in the crowd. That was the last time I ever saw her. And it was all seeming so much like a dream, more than it ever had.
I hop over the side of the steps and tramp through the snow of the quad, coming to a stop at the first tree, the tree where I first ever set eyes on her. She stopped my heart in that moment, with that smile, that halo of hers. “Hi,” she’d said, “I’m Sarah.”
The tree has grown taller since that day, but there’s still some branches that hang low. I look down and let my palm turn over. The chain falls loose, hanging but from a single finger, Sarah’s ring at the end of it making it swing like a pendulum. I toss it up, and it hooks around one of the branches. I look up at it for a long moment, then with a nod of silent good-bye, I turn away and head back towards the steps, where I can see Marisa, Mark, and Eileen waiting for me.
I pause at the open doors. What the fuck am I doing here though, really, I think. But my heart picks up pace as I stand there, wondering the same thing I’ve wondered the whole journey here: if I’ll see her. If she remembers that secret pact that we made, all those years ago, as vividly as I do.
“You know I’ve always been in love with you, right,” I can hear the echo of her voice. We’re at the Lookout, passing the joint I’d nabbed from my older brother’s stash, staring up at the star-filled sky. I nod, “I know.” “But you’re leaving, and I’m leaving,” she continues. I nod, “This is true.” She sits up, her hair long and tumbling down her back. She looks at me, “I’ll probably never see you again.” I shrug, “Probably.” "Hey!" she grins, hitting me lightly. Then her face grows thoughtful. “Wait. Wait, okay. 20 years,” she says, “20 years. We’ll both go to the reunion-“
“Reunion?” I laugh, “I barely make it to school events as is-“
“Yes. Reunion,” she repeats loudly over me, poking me and laughing, “You’ll have pulled your shit together by then. Anyway, we'll both be there. You’ll look at me from across the floor, and I’ll look at you. And here's the deal: if we walk towards each other, we’ll take each other’s hands, drop everything in our lives, and run away together. Forever.”
I take a puff, exhale. “Why not just do that now?” Sarah frowns, “Because that’s not realistic.” I grin and look over at her, “And this 20-year-long game plan of yours, is?” She nods sagely, “Look, you’re with Dana. I’m with Brian. In two weeks, we all graduate. In college you’ll have more Dana’s, I’ll have more Brians. And then, you know. Life. Besides,” she says, curling her hair behind her ear, taking the spliff from my outreached hand, inhaling, “I like pacts. I like having a secret. I’ll even make it official, here-” She takes off her favorite ring and tucks it into my jean jacket pocket. “See?” she said, “How amazing do you feel now, having a pact with someone that no one else knows about?”
I can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. I pause, then slip off my silver chain bracelet. “Here,” I say, and she looks at it in surprise. “Come on. Wouldn’t be a pact if I didn’t give you something,” I say. Her smile spreads slowly, lighting up her whole face, “Yeah.” She holds it in her palm, then wraps her fingers around it, closing it from sight.
I hop to my feet, stretching my arms in feigned tiredness, and say, “So, I guess that's it then? See you in, what, 20 years, right?” “What! Dumbass!” she exclaims, laughing. She’s pulling me back down- her hair smelled of flowers-
I smile, feeling her ring near my heart, where it’s hung on a chain, tucked away, since that night. And I wonder the same thing I always do every time I feel it, look at it: if she’s worn my bracelet since then, too. If it’ll be around her wrist, when I see her.
I take a deep breath, and walk into the gym.
The dimness of the lights is pleasantly hazy above the packed floor. A DJ plays in the corner. Sounds of chatter and the perfume of booze gently swirl in the air. I stroll around the outskirts, sipping my drink, when someone taps my shoulder.
“Holy shit - Josh?”
I turn. I’m met with a beaming, dimpled smile and shock of curls. Before I know it, she’s pulling me in, hugging me so tight I can barely breathe. “I knew it was you, I fucking knew it,” her muffled voice says into my chest. “Hi, Marisa,” I say, chuckling. She breaks away, playfully hits me, “What the fuck! I can’t believe you actually came! Eileen, Mark, get over here!”
Before I know it, I’m being hugged, flanked, tousled - “Only took 20 years to get you to come to one of these things, huh Joshie?” - given a shot, then another. My ears fill with stories of marriage and families, careers and retirement dreams. But most of all, memories. Those four years of high school, where the only thing that seemed to matter was our crew’s friendship: me, Marisa, Mark, Eileen, and...Sarah.
"Hey," says Mark to me, "Remember that first day we all got together? Freshman year. Marisa and me are under that tree in the quad, waiting for this one to finally arrive," he claps me on the back for emphasis. I nod; the others smirk. "Then before you know it, this girl walks by. This beautiful girl. She must be new, we think; we don't recognize her. Marisa here, not one to ever hold back, calls out to her. We start talking. 'Sarah', she says her name is. Then Josh shows up, and that's when we knew: she was in. Anyone who can hold Josh's focus for more than 30 seconds, is in." Everyone is laughing in agreement. The reminiscing continues, an endless brook of happy babbling.
Sarah. I haven’t seen her yet. I’m assuming she’s off talking to people, like always. I keep looking around, my heart doing little leaps each time. Waiting for that moment when our eyes meet and we walk towards each other. How she’d grin wickedly at me in that moment, and we’d run out of here, away from the past 20 years of a foggy fever dream and into to a woken Eden.
“Course right after graduation, Josh here disappears,” Mark’s regaling. He shakes his head at me, “It was like you got on the plane straight from the ceremony. Where’d you even run off to, man? I heard so many rumors. South America, Asia, fucking Russia. Seducing socialites in between hedge funding and espionage.” He’s laughing, Marisa is protesting. Eileen pipes up, “Well, let’s be real. Of our whole graduating class, ‘Most Likely to Become an International Man of Mystery’ could only belong to Josh Evans.” I chuckle, but say only, “I traveled a bit, yeah.” Everyone grins. I clear my throat, saying, “Speaking of mystery, where’s uh, where’s Sarah at?”
The smiles fade. An odd hush falls over them. I search their faces, but eyes are averted, heads bowed. “What?” I say, my heart sinking a bit, “She couldn’t make it?” There’s a long pause. The music in the background seems to fill the void. Eileen answers, and her voice is low, gravelly. “She - she’s gone, Josh.” I take a step back, shake my head, “What?” “Yeah, man,” says Mark, nodding somberly, “Three years ago.” I stare at them all, hoping this is some stupid prank like we all used to play, that Marisa will break like she always did, and Sarah will pop up behind me and shout “BOO!”
But there’s nothing. Only that music, that goddamn music. The room is suddenly spinning. My legs are shaking. My throat feels swollen, maybe from the shards of my shattering heart. “You were off on your...travels, you know,” Marisa’s saying weakly, “No one knew how to reach you. No one’s known, really, not since we graduated. I guess we just assumed you...knew. And grieved in your own way. You were always like that, Josh.” “Right,” I say, “I, uh, I’m gonna go outside for a minu-“ My voice breaks, and in a daze, I stagger to the back exit.
It’s cold outside, or at least I guess it is; there’s snow and bare branches and dark sky, anyway, and my breath comes out in white wisps like winter has consumed my insides, too. But I can’t…feel anything. Not the chill of the air, not the tears on my cheeks. I can barely taste whatever this drink in my hand is. But I tilt it back and chug til it’s gone, then toss it aside into one of the piles of snow.
I angrily yank out the chain from under my clothes and take it off. Like a curled snake, it huddles in my palm, with Sarah’s ring at the center. As I stare at it, I can see Sarah from across the swell of parents and graduation gowns. Brian was at her side, they were taking pictures with their families. As she turned to fix her cap, our eyes met. With a grin, she waved to me, then pointed to her wrist, my bracelet twinkling in the sun. Then, she was gone, slipped away in the crowd. That was the last time I ever saw her. And it was all seeming so much like a dream, more than it ever had.
I hop over the side of the steps and tramp through the snow of the quad, coming to a stop at the first tree, the tree where I first ever set eyes on her. She stopped my heart in that moment, with that smile, that halo of hers. “Hi,” she’d said, “I’m Sarah.”
The tree has grown taller since that day, but there’s still some branches that hang low. I look down and let my palm turn over. The chain falls loose, hanging but from a single finger, Sarah’s ring at the end of it making it swing like a pendulum. I toss it up, and it hooks around one of the branches. I look up at it for a long moment, then with a nod of silent good-bye, I turn away and head back towards the steps, where I can see Marisa, Mark, and Eileen waiting for me.
Sunday, April 5, 2020
Bloom
“See those, there?” Grandma says to me as she points to the peaches hanging from the branches. Her wrinkled face crinkles as she smiles, “Almost, now.” She tilts back her head, exhales in happiness as she looks up at the bright blue sky, “We got real lucky with the weather this year, hm. Should be a real perfect crop, come Harvest Day.” I nod. I don’t know much about perfect peaches, but the scent of them is strong, dreamy. Bees buzz past our ears, and the spring sun is warm on our skin. Grandma’s blue eyes are twinkling in excitement as she continues to admire the crop; she looks forward to “Harvest Day” all winter long. She pats my cheek in joy, and I can’t help but smile, too.
“Hello, out there!”
We turn. Mom’s on the veranda, waving at us. My smile fades as quickly as it came. “Lauren, you mind helping me with this lemonade?” she calls. I sigh, nod, and jog up the yard back to the house.
The wooden steps creak as I climb them. “What’s up?” I say, somewhat defensively. “Are you going to go see your grandfather?” my mother asks, her sharp tone a stark contrast to her sweet smile. I roll my eyes. Even when she knows Grandma’s too far away to see shit, she still thinks she’s gotta hide that she’s pissed at me. I glare at her, “Yeah, of course I am.” Mom gives me a look, “When?” “Ma-” I start, my voice raising. Her eyes widen angrily in warning. I shake my head, but oblige as I growl out through gritted teeth, “After I’m done helping Grandma.” “She can manage, and if she can’t, I’ll help her,” Mom says, “You, go see your grandfather.” I groan inwardly. She clicks her tongue, “Go on!” “Fine,” I say in annoyance, and push the screen door open. It screeches softly, and bangs shut behind me.
The whole house smells of spring, the curtains at the open windows dancing in the breeze. Our house growing up, too, smelled the same when the warm weather came. It’s an ache of memory, and the jump through time leaves me dizzy as I breathe it in. I look up the staircase, and the spin of memory fades. Reality returns. I start to climb the carpeted wood stairs, slowly, quietly, the railing cool under my palm.
I knock gently on the bedroom door, which is only just ajar, and push it open. “Grandpa?”
I push the door open and pause on the threshold. He’s at the large curtained window on the left, his back to me, motionless in his wheelchair. The whole room feels motionless, with every window closed and his radio turned off.
“Hi, Grandpa,” I say. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t even budge. Not that I would even know what to say to him, even if he did. I walk over to him. Still, he doesn’t turn. All right, I think, whatever. I pull over the rocking chair from one of the shadowed corners and sit next to him. His eyes remain steadily outward. They’ve gone blue in recent months, from worsening cataracts and age. But they’re sharp as ever, even with his inability to talk or hear well, to stand or walk on his own. I see them darting, blinking, taking in everything they can possibly take in. And when I look out, I see his view is directly of the peach grove. Through the small opening in the ivory curtains, I can see Grandma is right there, with Mom now, strolling up and down the rows.
Without a word, I get up and push the curtains fully to the side of the large window. I slide it open, and a breeze rushes in, as if it’s been waiting.
Grandpa coughs. I turn, but he stops almost instantly. He’s still gazing out the window. Like I’m not even here. I look around the room, which, too, has remained the same. Framed photos have been added over the years, of graduations and weddings and babies, but the furniture is all exactly as I remember it from when I was a kid. That color scheme of white-gold, faded sea green, dusty rose. All of it with a hint of Asian influence, I realize now, as if for the first time. I can only assume is from the time the two of them spent in Japan. Grandpa first, during the war. Then Grandma and him together, later on. Little touches, but it permeates everything, down to the wood bowls Grandpa himself carved that line some of the decorative shelves. But then, maybe they always liked this style. Maybe before they even met.
“So,” I say, “How are you doing today?” He actually moves, lifting a hand in a disinterested sort of wave, a slight nod of the head. “That’s good,” I say, “Maybe we can get you outside, huh?” He doesn’t seem to acknowledge this. “I’m, uh, sorry I haven’t been to see you and Grandma for awhile,” I say, “Work’s been busy, you know?” My voice lapses into silence upon hearing its own bullshit. Again, I feel that burning frustration. With myself, the not knowing what to say, or do. This man right here next to me is the man who raised my own mom, the man I’ve known for as long as I can remember, and yet, he feels like a stranger.
Grandpa shifts in his wheelchair. Tries to sit up straighter. I make as though to help him, but he holds up a hand that says no. So I watch him as he finishes readjusting. Then, he speaks. I frown. His speech drawling and slow, his jaw barely able to shape vowel sounds, let alone words. “Sorry, Grandpa, what did you say?” I ask, almost hating myself for having to. My older sister, our younger brother, Mom, they all seem to understand him. I alone seem to be unable to, like some unseen force deems me unworthy. Grandpa seems to sigh with impatience, then tries again. Louder, though his voice struggles past a rasp. This time, thankfully, I manage to grasp it. “Ah,” I repeat, “’The peaches are almost ready’. Yes, yes, they are.” Grandpa sinks into his chair in relief, nodding at my words, dabbing the drool at his lips with his handkerchief. “You want to go out there?” I ask, and a pang of self-hatred stings me again. Because I know part of me would be relieved if he did. We could go out there, and the crutch of others would alleviate all of this…this feeling that’s crushing me.
To my disappointment, Grandpa shakes his head no. I nod slowly, then sit back in my rocking chair once more, settling in for the long haul. I rest my hands on the arms of the chair, the wood cool and smooth on my skin. I see his hand reach out then, shaky and covered in spots. Its skin is nearly to the bone, so thin he’s become, and his veins protrude like a map of swelling rivers. In silence, I watch his hand reach further still, until it lands on top of mine. I’m shocked at the contact. He’s patting my hand now, and I can see the effort it’s taking him to do so. But when I look up at his face, he’s smiling, as if it’s bringing him all the joy in the world.
“Hello, out there!”
We turn. Mom’s on the veranda, waving at us. My smile fades as quickly as it came. “Lauren, you mind helping me with this lemonade?” she calls. I sigh, nod, and jog up the yard back to the house.
The wooden steps creak as I climb them. “What’s up?” I say, somewhat defensively. “Are you going to go see your grandfather?” my mother asks, her sharp tone a stark contrast to her sweet smile. I roll my eyes. Even when she knows Grandma’s too far away to see shit, she still thinks she’s gotta hide that she’s pissed at me. I glare at her, “Yeah, of course I am.” Mom gives me a look, “When?” “Ma-” I start, my voice raising. Her eyes widen angrily in warning. I shake my head, but oblige as I growl out through gritted teeth, “After I’m done helping Grandma.” “She can manage, and if she can’t, I’ll help her,” Mom says, “You, go see your grandfather.” I groan inwardly. She clicks her tongue, “Go on!” “Fine,” I say in annoyance, and push the screen door open. It screeches softly, and bangs shut behind me.
The whole house smells of spring, the curtains at the open windows dancing in the breeze. Our house growing up, too, smelled the same when the warm weather came. It’s an ache of memory, and the jump through time leaves me dizzy as I breathe it in. I look up the staircase, and the spin of memory fades. Reality returns. I start to climb the carpeted wood stairs, slowly, quietly, the railing cool under my palm.
I knock gently on the bedroom door, which is only just ajar, and push it open. “Grandpa?”
I push the door open and pause on the threshold. He’s at the large curtained window on the left, his back to me, motionless in his wheelchair. The whole room feels motionless, with every window closed and his radio turned off.
“Hi, Grandpa,” I say. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t even budge. Not that I would even know what to say to him, even if he did. I walk over to him. Still, he doesn’t turn. All right, I think, whatever. I pull over the rocking chair from one of the shadowed corners and sit next to him. His eyes remain steadily outward. They’ve gone blue in recent months, from worsening cataracts and age. But they’re sharp as ever, even with his inability to talk or hear well, to stand or walk on his own. I see them darting, blinking, taking in everything they can possibly take in. And when I look out, I see his view is directly of the peach grove. Through the small opening in the ivory curtains, I can see Grandma is right there, with Mom now, strolling up and down the rows.
Without a word, I get up and push the curtains fully to the side of the large window. I slide it open, and a breeze rushes in, as if it’s been waiting.
Grandpa coughs. I turn, but he stops almost instantly. He’s still gazing out the window. Like I’m not even here. I look around the room, which, too, has remained the same. Framed photos have been added over the years, of graduations and weddings and babies, but the furniture is all exactly as I remember it from when I was a kid. That color scheme of white-gold, faded sea green, dusty rose. All of it with a hint of Asian influence, I realize now, as if for the first time. I can only assume is from the time the two of them spent in Japan. Grandpa first, during the war. Then Grandma and him together, later on. Little touches, but it permeates everything, down to the wood bowls Grandpa himself carved that line some of the decorative shelves. But then, maybe they always liked this style. Maybe before they even met.
“So,” I say, “How are you doing today?” He actually moves, lifting a hand in a disinterested sort of wave, a slight nod of the head. “That’s good,” I say, “Maybe we can get you outside, huh?” He doesn’t seem to acknowledge this. “I’m, uh, sorry I haven’t been to see you and Grandma for awhile,” I say, “Work’s been busy, you know?” My voice lapses into silence upon hearing its own bullshit. Again, I feel that burning frustration. With myself, the not knowing what to say, or do. This man right here next to me is the man who raised my own mom, the man I’ve known for as long as I can remember, and yet, he feels like a stranger.
Grandpa shifts in his wheelchair. Tries to sit up straighter. I make as though to help him, but he holds up a hand that says no. So I watch him as he finishes readjusting. Then, he speaks. I frown. His speech drawling and slow, his jaw barely able to shape vowel sounds, let alone words. “Sorry, Grandpa, what did you say?” I ask, almost hating myself for having to. My older sister, our younger brother, Mom, they all seem to understand him. I alone seem to be unable to, like some unseen force deems me unworthy. Grandpa seems to sigh with impatience, then tries again. Louder, though his voice struggles past a rasp. This time, thankfully, I manage to grasp it. “Ah,” I repeat, “’The peaches are almost ready’. Yes, yes, they are.” Grandpa sinks into his chair in relief, nodding at my words, dabbing the drool at his lips with his handkerchief. “You want to go out there?” I ask, and a pang of self-hatred stings me again. Because I know part of me would be relieved if he did. We could go out there, and the crutch of others would alleviate all of this…this feeling that’s crushing me.
To my disappointment, Grandpa shakes his head no. I nod slowly, then sit back in my rocking chair once more, settling in for the long haul. I rest my hands on the arms of the chair, the wood cool and smooth on my skin. I see his hand reach out then, shaky and covered in spots. Its skin is nearly to the bone, so thin he’s become, and his veins protrude like a map of swelling rivers. In silence, I watch his hand reach further still, until it lands on top of mine. I’m shocked at the contact. He’s patting my hand now, and I can see the effort it’s taking him to do so. But when I look up at his face, he’s smiling, as if it’s bringing him all the joy in the world.
Friday, March 20, 2020
Until Then
He walks. Every day, he walks.
His beady eyes are sharp like a birds, trapped behind the glass of thick, near-sighted lenses. Eyes that only ever look forward. To pass by him, it’s as if he’s looking at something only he can see. Or perhaps, something that isn’t there at all.
Through the park, down the main avenues, weaving in and out of the small side streets. Sun, rain, snow. Hot, cold. Always, he walks. Never saying a word to anyone. Never a wave or a nod. His face remains steadily expressionless, even when the daily joggers and bicyclists recognize him, and maybe stare. At his beard, that’s grown unkempt and long. At his skin, that’s grown weathered and browned. Or even at his attire; he’s started to sport a neon reflective vest at all times, leaving some to wonder if he walks throughout the nights, too.
He never kicks rocks, he never picks up lucky pennies, he never waits for lights. He’ll turn a corner, go a different way, never wasting a moment in pause. He even only wears shoes with Velcro, to avoid the risk of laces untying and losing time. He walks and walks, and then, finally, eventually, he goes home.
He shuffles up a short flight of brick steps to a front door without a porch. He pauses in the soft light of the fixtures that illuminate the rusted house number. He reaches for the small leather pouch tucked away in his pocket, and removes a single key. He turns it in the dulled gold lock, opens the door, then closes it behind him.
He walks past a small, cluttered living room with a single recliner chair and a TV. Down the cramped hallway with walls filled with dusty photo frames, and baseboards lined with short stacks of paper and books. Then to the kitchen, the only room in the house that’s fully lit.
On the left, there’s a little white and black stove. Then, a short counter space with filled shelves above it, and finally, a table, which sits in front of a heavily curtained window. At the table, he makes a right, and then, he stops.
He’s standing before a wall. It’s covered in calendar months. Months that have passed, each day marked with a bright red number. At the edge of the wall hangs a red sharpie pen tied to a string, which he dutifully grabs, removes the cap from, and writes a neat number “8” on this day’s date. He considers the number, and sighs through his nose. He turns, and picks up a notepad that’s sitting on the kitchen tabletop. There, is a series of numbers that’s been added to, and then crossed out, over and over again, for several sheets back. He writes an “8” below the most recent number that’s there – 2,555 – and then, he crosses that out, and writes a new total: 2,563. He puts the pad down.
He sits at the table and stares at the wall, a clear shot from his seat. He mulls the wall, crossing his legs, hand at his chin. What had he said to her, always said to her? “Darling, I would walk 100,000 miles to see you again, if that’s what it took.” And now, a year she’d been gone. The day she passed, he felt in his bones that if he were to walk that 100,000 miles, he would indeed see her again.
He looks to the heavily curtained window to his right, and wonders. What would she say, he thinks, if she could see me now? “Bet you’re wishing you’d promised me a lower number, huh?” And she’d grin playfully, that dimple on her right cheek seeming to wink mischievously as she did. He’d pull her close, smell her soft hair, feel her in his arms-
97,437 miles to go. Until then, my love. Until then.
His beady eyes are sharp like a birds, trapped behind the glass of thick, near-sighted lenses. Eyes that only ever look forward. To pass by him, it’s as if he’s looking at something only he can see. Or perhaps, something that isn’t there at all.
Through the park, down the main avenues, weaving in and out of the small side streets. Sun, rain, snow. Hot, cold. Always, he walks. Never saying a word to anyone. Never a wave or a nod. His face remains steadily expressionless, even when the daily joggers and bicyclists recognize him, and maybe stare. At his beard, that’s grown unkempt and long. At his skin, that’s grown weathered and browned. Or even at his attire; he’s started to sport a neon reflective vest at all times, leaving some to wonder if he walks throughout the nights, too.
He never kicks rocks, he never picks up lucky pennies, he never waits for lights. He’ll turn a corner, go a different way, never wasting a moment in pause. He even only wears shoes with Velcro, to avoid the risk of laces untying and losing time. He walks and walks, and then, finally, eventually, he goes home.
He shuffles up a short flight of brick steps to a front door without a porch. He pauses in the soft light of the fixtures that illuminate the rusted house number. He reaches for the small leather pouch tucked away in his pocket, and removes a single key. He turns it in the dulled gold lock, opens the door, then closes it behind him.
He walks past a small, cluttered living room with a single recliner chair and a TV. Down the cramped hallway with walls filled with dusty photo frames, and baseboards lined with short stacks of paper and books. Then to the kitchen, the only room in the house that’s fully lit.
On the left, there’s a little white and black stove. Then, a short counter space with filled shelves above it, and finally, a table, which sits in front of a heavily curtained window. At the table, he makes a right, and then, he stops.
He’s standing before a wall. It’s covered in calendar months. Months that have passed, each day marked with a bright red number. At the edge of the wall hangs a red sharpie pen tied to a string, which he dutifully grabs, removes the cap from, and writes a neat number “8” on this day’s date. He considers the number, and sighs through his nose. He turns, and picks up a notepad that’s sitting on the kitchen tabletop. There, is a series of numbers that’s been added to, and then crossed out, over and over again, for several sheets back. He writes an “8” below the most recent number that’s there – 2,555 – and then, he crosses that out, and writes a new total: 2,563. He puts the pad down.
He sits at the table and stares at the wall, a clear shot from his seat. He mulls the wall, crossing his legs, hand at his chin. What had he said to her, always said to her? “Darling, I would walk 100,000 miles to see you again, if that’s what it took.” And now, a year she’d been gone. The day she passed, he felt in his bones that if he were to walk that 100,000 miles, he would indeed see her again.
He looks to the heavily curtained window to his right, and wonders. What would she say, he thinks, if she could see me now? “Bet you’re wishing you’d promised me a lower number, huh?” And she’d grin playfully, that dimple on her right cheek seeming to wink mischievously as she did. He’d pull her close, smell her soft hair, feel her in his arms-
97,437 miles to go. Until then, my love. Until then.
Friday, January 24, 2020
Elena and Her Neuroses Take A Writing Class: WEEK THREE
Last night was the most heartening class yet, and I’m almost…bummed out about it. Because, let's be honest here: when shit sucks, writing is just soooo much more inspired then when everything is happy and wonderful. Which is an interesting discussion in itself, right, and a topic I have wondered about since I had my first real breakthrough with my fiction writing. That is: do you need to suffer in order to create your greatest and most expressive art?
For me, that particular breakthrough piece of mine was written during a highly tumultuous and brutally emotional period in my life, and channeling those feelings resulted in the best fiction piece I ever wrote. Shit, even with my nonfiction writing, it was always something remarkable or powerful that urged me to put my thoughts to the page in a way that resulted in something meaningful, versus were I to write about something run-of-the-mill. So when everything is going great - like this class - well, what the fuck do I write here?
It should be noted that I have not made up my mind on that front, the whole suffering v. creativity thing. Not even with the totally convincing video we were told to watch as a precursor to the first class. (For those of you who are interested, it was a David Lynch written/narrated video about the idea of creativity. What stuck out to me was how he firmly believes you *do not* need to suffer in order to create, memorable mostly due to his elegant argument, which was, well: “if Van Gogh suffered from constant diarrhea, how could he ever have had the time to paint Starry Night between trips to the bathroom?” I shit you not, and, pun intended.) So yes. Even with such elevated prose as that, a small part of me will probably always remain in the school of thought that challenging situations will result in the greatest stories.
But, alas, in the meantime, here we are: class is going well, I’m actually learning things, I’m getting past my own inner obstacles, and holy shit, I have no idea how to make that humorously bitter at all.
So, instead of my usual grumblings, I’ve decided, at least for this week, to post what I wrote during one of the exercises.
To set the scene, what we focused on in class this week, was “point of view”, which was to me, a natural progression from last week’s theme of “authentic voice”. It was also much more in depth than last week, given that class didn’t simply open with a quote of an author’s take on the subject, but was promptly followed by a solid 15 minute discussion. What this quote said, in part anyway, was that in writing, there are two pictures going on at once: what the character sees, what the world is, and the writer’s job is to make the reader see only one – what the writer sees. I liked that, and I liked how when other students began to speak up, that many of them suffer from the same issues and questions that I do. Not that I’m rooting for my fellow students to be in the woods and filled with despair, but I felt a real sense of camaraderie in our grievances. Such as: what should I describe? What should I leave blurry and out of focus, and what should I make sharp and clear? Should I describe setting and landscape, or should I hone-in more on the characters thoughts and inner voice?
The take-away was for me was that a lot of that gets hammered out through practice, and that do what feels right to you.
All that in mind, the first exercise was us closing our eyes, and her talking about a doorway. She wanted us to visualize the doorway, what it looks like, what the room we're in looks like. Then through the doorway, what do we see? What do we notice first? A smell, the light, a feeling, what? I remembered thinking damn, I really should meditate because this is crazy how calm and focused I’m feeling.
But then, bam, “Open your eyes, write what you saw”.
Without further ado, what I saw:
The door is just barely ajar, a short sliver of light curling like a beckoning finger. My heart is racing as I walk slowly towards it, the floorboards under my feet creaking with each step I take. Shadows cling to the walls like cobwebs, and living in their threads are the echoes of children’s laughter, and then, of screams.
I don’t know why I came back here. I don’t know why I drove all this way. How many years did I try to put this place behind me? How many years did I try to gouge out my own inner eyes to the memories of this house-
“Jane.”
I whirl around in a flurry of heartbeats. I can barely see who has called my name from the darkness, but then he emerges, his face just as white-washed and sickly-looking as when we were kids. “Michael?” I say in disbelief, “How – when did you – “ “You felt it too, then,” is all he says. My mouth snaps shut, but too late – it’s utterly dry, my sawdust tongue unable to evade what is happening. His eyes, so big and brown, are still so filled with sadness. I stare at him, then slowly, I nod. We turn to the door. It hasn’t moved, and yet, it seems to open wide to call us towards it, to cross its threshold and enter a room we hadn’t stepped foot in for decades.
And...that's it, haha. As I retyped it from my notes for this post, I am considering maybe bringing a laptop to the next class, because hot damn, I write WAY slower by hand.
Anyway, til next week...
For me, that particular breakthrough piece of mine was written during a highly tumultuous and brutally emotional period in my life, and channeling those feelings resulted in the best fiction piece I ever wrote. Shit, even with my nonfiction writing, it was always something remarkable or powerful that urged me to put my thoughts to the page in a way that resulted in something meaningful, versus were I to write about something run-of-the-mill. So when everything is going great - like this class - well, what the fuck do I write here?
It should be noted that I have not made up my mind on that front, the whole suffering v. creativity thing. Not even with the totally convincing video we were told to watch as a precursor to the first class. (For those of you who are interested, it was a David Lynch written/narrated video about the idea of creativity. What stuck out to me was how he firmly believes you *do not* need to suffer in order to create, memorable mostly due to his elegant argument, which was, well: “if Van Gogh suffered from constant diarrhea, how could he ever have had the time to paint Starry Night between trips to the bathroom?” I shit you not, and, pun intended.) So yes. Even with such elevated prose as that, a small part of me will probably always remain in the school of thought that challenging situations will result in the greatest stories.
But, alas, in the meantime, here we are: class is going well, I’m actually learning things, I’m getting past my own inner obstacles, and holy shit, I have no idea how to make that humorously bitter at all.
So, instead of my usual grumblings, I’ve decided, at least for this week, to post what I wrote during one of the exercises.
To set the scene, what we focused on in class this week, was “point of view”, which was to me, a natural progression from last week’s theme of “authentic voice”. It was also much more in depth than last week, given that class didn’t simply open with a quote of an author’s take on the subject, but was promptly followed by a solid 15 minute discussion. What this quote said, in part anyway, was that in writing, there are two pictures going on at once: what the character sees, what the world is, and the writer’s job is to make the reader see only one – what the writer sees. I liked that, and I liked how when other students began to speak up, that many of them suffer from the same issues and questions that I do. Not that I’m rooting for my fellow students to be in the woods and filled with despair, but I felt a real sense of camaraderie in our grievances. Such as: what should I describe? What should I leave blurry and out of focus, and what should I make sharp and clear? Should I describe setting and landscape, or should I hone-in more on the characters thoughts and inner voice?
The take-away was for me was that a lot of that gets hammered out through practice, and that do what feels right to you.
All that in mind, the first exercise was us closing our eyes, and her talking about a doorway. She wanted us to visualize the doorway, what it looks like, what the room we're in looks like. Then through the doorway, what do we see? What do we notice first? A smell, the light, a feeling, what? I remembered thinking damn, I really should meditate because this is crazy how calm and focused I’m feeling.
But then, bam, “Open your eyes, write what you saw”.
Without further ado, what I saw:
The door is just barely ajar, a short sliver of light curling like a beckoning finger. My heart is racing as I walk slowly towards it, the floorboards under my feet creaking with each step I take. Shadows cling to the walls like cobwebs, and living in their threads are the echoes of children’s laughter, and then, of screams.
I don’t know why I came back here. I don’t know why I drove all this way. How many years did I try to put this place behind me? How many years did I try to gouge out my own inner eyes to the memories of this house-
“Jane.”
I whirl around in a flurry of heartbeats. I can barely see who has called my name from the darkness, but then he emerges, his face just as white-washed and sickly-looking as when we were kids. “Michael?” I say in disbelief, “How – when did you – “ “You felt it too, then,” is all he says. My mouth snaps shut, but too late – it’s utterly dry, my sawdust tongue unable to evade what is happening. His eyes, so big and brown, are still so filled with sadness. I stare at him, then slowly, I nod. We turn to the door. It hasn’t moved, and yet, it seems to open wide to call us towards it, to cross its threshold and enter a room we hadn’t stepped foot in for decades.
And...that's it, haha. As I retyped it from my notes for this post, I am considering maybe bringing a laptop to the next class, because hot damn, I write WAY slower by hand.
Anyway, til next week...
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